


Lost Vegas

by Malivrag



Category: L.A. Guns (Band), Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Forced Prostitution, Gen, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:38:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malivrag/pseuds/Malivrag
Summary: Tracii Guns is the owner and sole driver of Electric Gypsy, Las Vegas' most discrete car service. His only client is Phil Lewis, a mysterious man with Mob connections. Meanwhile, a biker gang of real vampires tears a bloody swathe across the desert on a collision course with Tracii and Phil.





	1. Numero Uno

"Cry Little Sister" blared from the car's radio as Tracii Guns put his seat in recline, propped his feet up on the dashboard, and lit a cigarette. He savored the first, deep drag, breathing out smoke like a dragon. His tongue wet his lower lip, then dragged across his upper teeth, relishing the burn in his lungs. The cigarette's cherry glowed in the darkness. Fuck it, this wasn't going to kill him. Tracii took another drag.

Something in the rear-view mirror caught his attention. Tracii sat up, tossing the cigarette out of the open window, and twisted in his seat to look behind him. A slim figure approached his car, bathed in the Vegas Strip's bright but artificial lights, and Tracii remembered a little late that he was supposed to open the door for this guy. He popped out of the car, brushing his unruly hair out of his face, flashing a toothy smile as he yanked the door open and gallantly gestured to the backseat. "You must be Mr. Lewis."

Mr. Lewis had strange eyes, eyes too light for his dark hair, and he looked Tracii up and down, took in his messy hair and patched leather jacket, and seemed to take a disapproving whiff of the scent of cigarette smoke in the air. He ducked his head and got in the back seat without saying a word, and Tracii slammed the door a little forcefully. He was already inclined to dislike this guy on sight, on account of Mr. Lewis being taller than him, and his silent and snotty attitude seemed to seal his fate.

Point A to Point B, that's all I gotta do for him, Tracii told himself. No sooner had he gotten back in the driver's seat, but Mr. Lewis spoke up.

"There's been a change of plans. We're to go to the Flamingo first, to pick up a very important person. Then you shall deliver us to the address you were originally given." The sound of his voice shocked Tracii's senses. This was not the same person who'd spoken with him over the phone; the accent was a dead giveaway.

"You're from England?" Tracii asked, peering back at the other man.

Mr. Lewis stared out the window. He looked lost in thought. "I'm from anywhere," he said. "Doesn't matter. Just drive."

Now Tracii was intrigued. It'd been awhile since he had a mystery to figure out. The guy who booked this job with him over the phone had stressed that this was hush-hush and discretion was of the utmost importance, et-fucking-cetera. He'd been paid a handsome sum just to show up and cart Mr. Lewis around for the night, half up front and half on delivery, and the half up front had been so good Tracii had considered taking the money and running. What was this Lewis guy's deal? Visions of Las Vegas sleaze danced through Tracii's head. Maybe Mr. Lewis was a mob hitman. Maybe they'd pull up at the Flamingo, Mr. Lewis would leave for ten minutes, and come back with bloody hands and a gun in his pocket. Tracii's heart pounded with excitement.

They pulled up in front of the Flamingo, and to Tracii's dismay, the VIP was waiting for them and no mob hit seemed imminent. Mr. Lewis opened the door for him, and the VIP climbed into the car, his tie undone, his shirt partially unbuttoned. He was middle-aged, balding on top, looked like he lived in a suit. The VIP didn't say a word to Tracii, but he had plenty to say to Mr. Lewis.

"God, look at you," Middle-Aged and Balding crooned to Mr. Lewis. "You look so good, Phil. You were all I could think about on the flight over, goddamn, I want to f--"

"That'll have to wait till we make it to my place," said Mr. Lewis (Phil? What a boring name for the mob hitman of Tracii's fevered imagination) as he cut off the VIP sharply. Tracii glanced at them in the rear-view mirror as they waited at a red light, and the VIP was half in Phil Lewis' lap, slobbering all over his neck. Tracii almost gagged.

"But I've waited for so long," complained the VIP, as he tugged at the buttons on Phil's shirt.

Phil grabbed at his hands, stilling him. "Somehow, I doubt that our driver, Mister..." and Phil paused to look at the cabbie license with Tracii's picture on it that was displayed in a little plastic pouch attached to the back seat. "Mister Tracii Guns would want that in the back seat of his vehicle."

"Who cares what he wants?" The VIP moaned. "I paid your boss a lot of money for you."

"I care," snapped Phil, and miraculously, the other passenger shut up. Whatever look Phil had given the VIP must've been poisonous.

They arrived at the address Tracii had originally been given, a seedy motel that didn't look like it'd been renovated since the '50s, not the pastel, chintzy décor or the clientele. This was a no-tell motel, a place you brought a hooker when you didn't want your wife to find out what you were up to in Vegas.

Tracii watched Phil Lewis unlocking a motel room overlooking the pool. He didn't even go to check-in at the motel. He must use this place so much he had a room and a key at his disposal at all times. Fuck. He settled back into his car, cranking up The Doors on the radio. His night wasn't done until he returned Phil Lewis to Point A. Hopefully, the john wouldn't take too long.

He was halfway through Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze" when Phil Lewis reappeared, noticeably more rumpled. "We taking the other guy back to the Flamingo?" Tracii asked him as he opened the door for him.

"No, he's arranged for his own transportation," Phil said. As Tracii put the car in drive, his voice piped up again. "Is that your real name? Tracii Guns?"

"It's what my mother named me," Tracii said, lighting a cigarette.

"Are you going to smoke in 'ere?"

"Are you gonna tell me to stop?" Tracii threw the question back at him, catching Phil's eye in the rear-view mirror.

"Not if you share with me. Pass it 'ere." Phil reached one long, skinny arm over the seat, and Tracii stuck the cigarette between two of his fingers. They paused at a red light, so Tracii took the opportunity to turn about and watch as Phil blew a smoke ring, then blew a second, smaller smoke ring through the first one.

"Nice trick!"

"Yes, well, they do say that about me," muttered Phil bitterly. Tracii cringed a little.

"That's not what I meant, man."

Phil handed the cigarette back to him. "If only we all got what we deserve, and said what we mean."

The cigarette dangled from Tracii's lip as he said, "I know who you are. I didn't recognize you at first. Took me a minute to put the face and the name and the accent all together."

Phil's sharp and oddly feminine features tensed warily. "And who do you think I am?"

"You were the singer from that band with one of the Def Leppard guys." At the look of panic on Phil's face, Tracii chuckled to himself. Busted, you fucker.

"You've confused me with someone else."

"No, I don't think so." Tracii blew a smoke ring of his own. "I used to play guitar in L.A. myself. What brought you here?"

"Poor decision-making skills," said Phil. "You're a talkative fellow, yeah? Why are you driving a cab and not playing in a band on the Sunset Strip?"

Tracii shrugged. "I get bored easy." They pulled up to where they'd first met. He got out to open Phil's door, and for a moment they stood face-to-face, something hanging in the air between them. Tracii half-expected Phil to beg him to keep this a secret, like something from a movie. It's Chinatown, Jake! Instead, Phil raked a hand through his hair; each finger wore an elaborate ring. He thrust an envelope at Tracii almost like an afterthought.

"Half on delivery, as promised."

Tracii peeked into the envelope to find several fifties waiting for him. He salivated. "I'll be seeing you again soon," he promised Phil.

Phil was halfway across the alley when he stopped, rotating slowly on one foot to face Tracii. "You're lucky to have left the Sunset Strip behind you," he called out, the words seeming to fall from his lips unbidden. "All that, that's how I ended up 'ere. Like this."


	2. Numero Dos

The train blew its whistle, and it rumbled on like a passing storm.

Inside the clubhouse, on the wrong side of the tracks on the outskirts of a one-whore town, a biker named Jason McClintock had his hand halfway down the top of a girl who's name he'd already forgotten. She wore a scar on her lip and an acoustic guitar across her shoulder, and bore up under his groping with an air of resignation. Tonight was a dark and wasted night of drinking and revelry in a scummy biker bar in the desert.

The clubhouse pulled double-duty as a biker bar and the epicenter of the crank industry for several counties. Some of Jason's 'brothers', men who were no kin to him but rode the highways alongside him, shot pool and talked shit to one another. Jason pawed at the girl and said, "C'mon baby, get a little wet for me."

The girl stared at the floor. "I just wanna play my guitar," she said in her soft, babyish voice.

The door flew open with a bang.

Everyone turned and gawked at the strange new arrivals.

The first of the strangers was an average-enough looking fellow. He was tall and lanky, and looked older than the other men he was with. Unremarkable, aside from his grief-stricken eyes. The second fellow wore a denim jacket, and was quietly handsome. The third was even better-looking, with black hair that spilled about his shoulders and down to his mid-back. All three were dressed outrageously, wearing leather pants with stitching along the sides, headbands, and tattoos. They looked like a rock band who'd taken a terrible wrong turn on their way to a gig.

Jason actually yanked his hand out of the girl's shirt. "What the hell are you fags doing here?"

The first man smiled mildly at him. "We're just passing through, gentlemen. Looking for an old friend of ours. Rode in on the train."

"Bullshit," spat out another biker, called Tony. "That's a cargo train. It don't carry no passengers."

The stranger shrugged, as though not concerned with whether he was believed. The second man, the one in the denim jacket, said to him, "He's been this way. Not so long ago. I can sense it."

"Are you sure, Mick?"

"I've never been so sure about anything. I know these things."

"Hey!" Jason yelled at them. "Get your fuckin' fruity asses out of here! Did you hear me? I'm talking to you!" He stood up and made to approach them, but the girl caught him by the crook of his elbow.

"Please baby, don't," she whispered. Her eyes were wide with fright; she was prey, and she recognized predators on sight. "Something's wrong. Just leave 'em alone."

"Get offa me." Jason shoved her aside.

The third stranger spoke up. Humor danced in his eyes. "Those bikes outside are something else. They yours?"

The bartender silently reached for his shotgun. Jason snatched up a pool cue and stalked towards the three strangers, his 'brothers' at his back, bolder in numbers.

"Please," pleaded the girl from where she lay on the floor. "Please don't."

The three strangers shared a look. The first did something strange to his jaw, and it seemed to unhinge. The third man said, "Oh, here we go."

The night came alive with screams.

Hundreds of miles away, in Las Vegas, Tracii Guns headed out at sundown for another night playing chauffeur to the mob's most expensive male prostitute.

"Do you mind if we take a detour?" Phil asked him as soon as he climbed into Tracii's car. "My client's been delayed."

"What kind of detour?" Tracii assumed Phil wanted to go drinking or get some food, but instead they drove to an apartment complex and Phil ducked out for a few minutes, only to return with a giggling young woman. "Do we have time to go to your place, Phil?" she asked as she left lipstick kisses up and down his neck.

"I don't think so, love," said Phil regretfully. "We've got perhaps an hour, no more."

"Let's make the best of it," the young woman told him, already tugging down the strap on her dress.

"Not in the back seat, love, Tracii--"

"Doesn't mind," Tracii cut in. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on between Phil and this chick, but whatever it was, he didn't mind a free show. He picked the most roundabout route he could think of, driving as slow as possible so he could keep an eye on the action in the back seat. Phil didn't need much convincing; once assured that Tracii didn't have a problem with it, he had the chick's dress off in the blink of an eye and his trousers down. They went at it passionately, the woman throwing her head back and moaning as she came, scratching up Phil's back and shoulders.

All too soon, they pulled up to the apartment complex to drop the young woman back off. Phil zipped her into her dress and tenderly kissed the nape of her neck. "Good night, love."

She kissed him once on the lips, and again between his eyes. "Be good to yourself," she said, and then she stepped out of the car and ran into her place.

Tracii drove them back towards the Flamingo to pick up their client for the evening. "I didn't expect that from you," he said to Phil as they drove along.

Phil bristled. "You s'posed I prefer men?"

"Nah. More that I figured you'd been fucked enough for a lifetime."

"She's in a similar predicament to mine," Phil told him. He wiped at the lipstick marks on his skin with a tissue. "We help one another feel more... human."

Tracii tossed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter over his shoulder to Phil. "What is your predicament, exactly?"

Phil went silent for some time. At last, Tracii heard him flick the lighter, and smelled the cigarette smoke. "I made a deal with the devil to finance my first album. I found myself unable to pay my debts, so now I'm working them off." He handed the cigarette to Tracii, who took a puff while imagining he could taste that chick's pussy on it.

"Why not run home to England?" Tracii asked him.

"There's nothing for me there."

The gaudy lights of the Vegas Strip assaulted Tracii's senses. "There's something for you here?"

"Aren't you full of questions tonight. There's my client. Do try to at least appear professional, just till we drop him back off." In a moment, another rich bloated fuck was climbing into Tracii's backseat, pawing at Phil, seemingly oblivious to the scent of sex permeating Tracii's car.


	3. Numero Tres

Mick's fingers coaxed "Riders on the Storm" from the acoustic guitar, the song echoing off the nooks and crags of the canyon. He sat on the hood of a trashed Chevy, playing to an audience of motorcycles parked outside the trailer he and his band had claimed for their own.

The first rays of the rising sun lit up the sky.

"Mick, come inside." Steve's raspy voice called out to him.

Mick played on as though deaf.

Kelly's boots scuffed on the cinder block steps that led up to the trailer's front door. "I'll get him, stay inside," he told Steve. Ambling over to Mick, he said, "C'mon, man. The sun's coming up."

Mick's hand tightened around the neck of the guitar, choking off any sound. Though sheltered in the shadow cast by the canyon, he could feel his skin starting to prickle and burn. He stood up and in one smooth motion, smashed the guitar against the ground. In moments, it was a wreck of strings and broken wood.

Kelly stood by and let Mick vent his rage on the guitar. When he sensed it was safe to do so, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over his and Mick's head. Steve watched them anxiously from the window of the trailer. Mick and Kelly ran back to the safety of the trailer, just ahead of a killing ray of sunlight that stalked them like the hand of justice.

Once inside, Mick glowered at Kelly and Steve as they spray-painted the windows black. "One day, I'm gonna let the sun take me. Just walk out there and open my arms wide, let myself burn."

"You're not doin' anything that stupid," spat Steve. "I don't want to hear any talk like that ever again."

"What's there to live for? Chasing sundowns for eternity?"

"It'll get better," Kelly promised Mick, stepping over the corpse of the previous home-owner to sit beside him on the couch. "When we find him, it'll get better, I promise."

Mick sniffed. "He's not a very good master vampire." He grimaced at the corpse at his feet. "I think this guy still had meth in his system. I got the aftertaste in my mouth." He stuck his tongue out in disgust. Mick needed to feed more than either Kelly or Steve; a meal that would glut both of them for a week barely kept Mick sated from a single sunrise to sunset. No one was sure whether it was because he was a newer vampire, or just some quirk unique to him. They all had their quirks.

The three vampires made a little nest in the bedroom and dropped off into the heavy, dreamless sleep of the damned.

That evening in Las Vegas, Tracii Guns found his radio on the fritz. While he waited for Phil, he fiddled with it, twisting the knob this way and that, cringing at the bursts of static.

"*bzzzt*... county police report... bodies found... exsanguination... coroner reports indicate an animal attack... *bzzt*"

The familiar strains of Hendrix's "Foxy Lady" poured out of the radio. "Hell yes!" Tracii crowed, playing air guitar along with the song. Glancing up, he frowned in confusion when he realized Phil Lewis was standing right in front of his car, talking on a payphone. Curiosity getting the better of him, Tracii got out to see what was going on.

"Izzat so?" Phil crooned into the phone, a huge smile across his face. It was not a kind smile. He waved Tracii over, holding up the receiver so Tracii could hear the person he was talking to.

"Yeah baby, sexy boy, the things you do to me, uhhhh..." Tracii pulled a face, then looked at Phil as if to say, 'Is this guy for real?'

Phil's eyes sparkled. "Oh, you don't really mean that," he said in the most insincere, mocking tone that Tracii had ever heard.

"When I get there, I'm bringing you Perignon and diamonds, you'll see baby!"

That was about all Tracii could take. He began mouthing along outrageously to the guy's inept dirty talking, while pretending to jack off a tiny dick with one hand. When the guy on the line started incoherently moaning, Tracii began miming sucking a cock, and Phil lost it at that. He had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Pulling himself back together, Phil flicked a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye and said, "I must be going, lover." He hung up the phone and collapsed into a flood of giggles. He leaned with his back against the wall, his feet sticking straight out in front of him, and his face pleasantly flushed with humor.

"Damn, where did you dig up that fossil!" Tracii laughed along with him. He offered Phil a hand to help him back to his feet.

Phil followed him back to the car. "Believe it or not, he's a state senator. They're all wretched hypocrites, you know. Nice helmet-haired wife at home that he's sired a couple of brats upon. All for appearances. He spends a fortune just on the phone bill calling me."

"Fucking Dom Perignon." Tracii couldn't get over it.

"I much prefer a whisky, myself." Phil sighed and stared out the window, lost in thought.

"Something on your mind?" Tracii asked as casually as he could manage. Tonight, they weren't picking anyone up, just driving straight to Phil's chintzy little motel. Apparently, the john didn't trust Tracii's car service and had his own people deliver him.

"I'm not looking forward to this one," confessed Phil. "I've had him before. Or should I say, I've been had by him. He's a brute. Absolute brute." He rubbed at his wrists absent-mindedly.

"You want me to stick around, listen for any trouble?" Tracii was a bit concerned despite himself.

Phil smiled at him in the rear-view mirror, a much sweeter smile than the mocking ones he gave the men who pawed at him in backseats and grimy hotel rooms. "S'pose there's nothing you could be expected to do on my behalf. But thank you, all the same."

When they pulled up to the motel, the lights in Phil's room were already on. Phil seemed to be sweating a little as he opened the door. Tracii watched him walk up the steps to the room, the slow walk of a man dreading what was about to happen to him, and he made a decision. He cut the car's lights and backed into a parking spot on the other side of the building, directly behind Phil's room.


	4. Numero Quatro

Scorpions serenaded Tracii via his radio, while Phil and his john burned the night.

Who are you?  
Your magic is strange and new  
Who are you?  
I want ya, that's all I do

Tracii fidgeted, smoked an entire pack, even kicked at his dashboard. He was wound up; he needed to fight or fuck. Split his knuckles open, get drunk as possible, get his dick sucked. This whole situation had him bothered. The resigned way Phil had submitted himself to that john bothered him. Sure, Phil was a hooker, but he'd always seemed like he was in control of things. He had a sense of humor about it all and he sure as hell wasn't some sad-eyed waif. Tonight was the first time what he did seemed to get to Phil. Consequently, it was getting to Tracii.

He was about to go looking for a fight when one came right to him. A harsh cry; then the door to Phil's motel room flew open and a pale, thin figure came stumbling out. It was Phil, shirtless, clutching at his mouth. A man came running out after him, a big ugly motherfucker with a buzz-cut. He chased Phil into the parking lot. Cursing, Tracii fumbled with his car door.

"Get back here!" Big and Ugly yelled at Phil. "Get your ass back here right now."

"You burnt me," Phil said through his splayed fingers. His lip was red, raw, and blistered. "You sick bastard. Don't touch me!"

As Tracii ran to intercept them, a man stepped from another car. He wore a cheap suit and sunglasses at night, unquestionably he was Big and Ugly's bodyguard. He probably had a gun holstered under his jacket. "Don't get involved, hero," he said, putting out his hands to block Tracii's way.

On the other side of the parking lot, Phil slumped against the hood of a car. His ribcage heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. The john grabbed him, spun him around, and slammed him up against the side of the vehicle. He stuck a finger in Phil's face.

Growling, Tracii reached up, quick as lightning, and dug his nails into the bodyguard's jugular. The other man had just enough time to register shock on his face before Tracii ripped his throat out.

From his vantage point, Phil glimpsed what happened from over the john's shoulder. His mouth fell open in horror and he silently pointed, only for the john to slap his hand aside. "I paid for you!" The john spat in his face. "You fuckin' whore, you're mine, and I'll do anything I want..."

Phil's eyes were white and wide with horror, everything forgotten -- his shitty situation, the humiliation, the pain of his burnt lip, fear of his "employers" -- as he watched Tracii close the distance between them.

"Hey!" Tracii kicked at some broken glass. He tore at his own shirt, painted arterial spray red. "You like beating on people smaller than you? Huh? I'm small! Try me."

"The hell--" Big and Ugly didn't even get the sentence out before Tracii was on him. Fabric ripped, wings beat at the air.

Phil slumped to the ground, unconscious from shock.

Out in the desert, Kelly, Steve and Mick were taking a breather on the side of the highway. Their motorcycles stood nearby like sentinels. Galaxies spun overhead, lizards skittered about underfoot. The future awaited them.

Mick was studying the stars, divining things unknowable to anyone else. He glanced over at Kelly, who sat cross-legged, contently smoking a cigarette. Grinning at him, Kelly popped the entire cigarette into his mouth, then spat it several feet into a ditch.

"We're losing nighttime," Steve warned them.

"He's not far," said Mick. He turned away from the stars. "A night's ride from here, no more."

"Las Vegas is a night's ride from here," Kelly said. "Maybe a little less if we push it."

"We're not pushing it!" Steve glared at him. "You've never seen what happens when the sun gets you. It ain't a nice way to die, all right? We're playing it safe."

Kelly rolled his eyes and pretended to salute him. Mick stormed off and revved up his bike, taking off down the highway, the other two vampires following behind.

The highway, like the night, was theirs to ride.


	5. Numero Cinco

Phil's hair tickled his nose. He grunted, and his eyelashes fluttered open. The room was pitch-black, but he could feel the pounding blood in his head and... fingers... in his mouth.

Phil startled, and awareness hit him like cold water to the face. He was hanging upside down, in a dark room, with some kind of leathery coat holding him tight to someone's bare chest. There were fingers in his mouth; he could feel the nails scrape his gums as he jerked in the throes of terror.

"Cool it, man," a familiar voice told him.

Phil tried to squeal Tracii?? around the fingers in his mouth. A moment later, his mouth was freed. "Bloody 'ell, Tracii, what are you doing?"

The leathery restraints holding him up abruptly pulled away, and Phil fell from the warmth of Tracii's embrace straight down onto the shabby motel bed. Scrambling about, he righted himself, and despite his whirling head, Phil managed to feel his way to the bedside lamp and turn it on.

He looked up and shrieked.

"Keep it down, fuck!" Tracii snarled down at him from where he was hanging by his feet from the ceiling. He was shirtless, and aside from the normal set of arms and legs, a pair of wing-like appendages swept out from his back. Phil realized that what he'd assumed was some kind of coat wrapping him 'round was in fact the leathery membranes of Tracii's wings. His wingspan had to be twelve feet wide.

Phil clamped a hand over his own mouth, swallowing his shrieks.

"I know what you're thinking," Tracii said as he walked across the ceiling, stepped onto the wall, and then walked down that as well and stood upright on the floor. "And yes, I lied to you. My mother didn't name me Tracii Guns."

After some moments, Phil was able to speak. "That wasn't the first thought that came to mind, honestly."

Tracii folded his wings tightly to his back. "I didn't mean to scare you half to death. You were, like, comatose."

"You... you..." Phil stammered a bit. "What sort of monster are you?"

Tracii pouted at him. "Remind me never to save your life again. I'm a vampire. Duh. You don't have vampires in England?"

"I'd never have come if I'd known you had them 'ere in America!" Phil narrowed his eyes at him. "Why were your fingers in my mouth?"

"Oh, that." Tracii held up his hand, displaying a tiny cut on the palm of his hand. "The stuff I bleed isn't really blood. Ichor is good for what ails ya. I fed you some to see if it'd heal your lip and wake you up."

At that, Phil touched his lip, realizing for the first time that the pain of the burn was gone, leaving not even a scar or a welt. "Did you turn me into one of you?"

"Nah. I'd have to bite you to do that." Tracii winked at him. "It's not so bad, though. Sleep all day, stay up all night, never grow old. I'm a Hollywood vampire."

"Are there others like you?" Phil wondered.

"Yeah," said Tracii. "A few. If I bite someone and I don't, uh, finish the job..." He kicked open the door to the bathroom so Phil could see two dismembered bodies in the bathtub. Well, that settled the question of what happened to the john and his bodyguard. "If I don't rip their throats out, they tend to get back up." He reached down and picked up a bloody organ that Phil recognized as a heart.

"I'm Jewish. Ya know, we're not even supposed to eat anything that has blood in it," said Tracii. He pressed his lips to the heart, sucking down a mouthful of blood. Phil got sick into the sink, and then bolted for the door. He didn't make it far before Tracii slammed into him from behind, pinning him to the bed.

"Oh no you don't," Tracii chided him. "If you open that door or that curtain --" he nodded at the blackout curtains on the window "-- then I'm dead meat."

Gathering all his courage, Phil said back to him, "Should I suffer something like you to walk the night?"

Tracii gave him a look of genuine hurt. A strange sight on a man who's mouth was painted red with gore. "Hey, that guy would've killed you if not for me!"

"No, he wouldn't have," Phil gritted out between his teeth. "He would've tortured me, but not killed me. I'm worth too much money."

"How was I supposed to know that?" Tracii sounded like a petulant child. "He looked like a hardened killer to me." He eased up off Phil, but kept himself positioned between Phil and the door, in case he made a mad dash for it.

"He was a hardened killer." Phil rinsed his mouth out with a bottle of Perrier sitting on the dresser, then spat it out in the sink. He looked over at the clock. Six in the morning. "His people must be missing him by now. They'll come looking for us and find you turned a mafia hitman into so much hamburger." He glanced sidelong at Tracii. "I s'pose you're not bulletproof."

Tracii shrugged. "You owe money to some fucked up people. It hurts like hell to get shot up, but I'll survive."

"And if they kick in the door? Or shoot holes in the wall?" Phil asked pointedly. "The sun will incinerate you."

Tracii sat down in the chair by the door and lit a cigarette. "Guess today's as good as any to die. You could run, if you want. I can lock myself in the bathroom while you slip out the door and drive off. Start fresh somewhere else."

Phil pondered on this. He could take whatever cash was in the john's pockets and make a run for the border. Live it up with tequilas and senoritas before Franchese caught up with him. Perhaps Tracii would even take a few of Franchese's men with him before he died. Something niggled at the back of his mind. Tracii was the closest thing he'd had to a friend in a long, long time, and it felt wrong to abandon him here to his sad fate, even if he were a monster that didn't deserve to live. Who was Phil to decide who should live and who should die? He'd made a mess of things in his own life, he didn't feel qualified to judge anyone else.

"S'pose there was a way to get you out of 'ere alive," Phil said slowly.

"What?"

Phil walked over to the luggage rack and pulled down a duffel bag that belonged to the john. He dug in it for a few moments and pulled out a large black bag with a zipper.

"Is that what I think it is?" Tracii asked, disbelieving. "Are you fucking kidding me? That guy carried bodybags around with him?"

"I told you, he was a hardened killer." Phil unzipped the bodybag. "Do you think you could survive in 'ere if I zipped you in and carried you out to the car?"

"Yeah, I guess." Tracii dug his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Phil. They cleaned out the dead men's wallets and then Phil zipped Tracii into the bodybag. First, he went outside and drove Tracii's car around and left it idling right outside the door. Then he propped the motel room door open with the chair and hefted Tracii into his arms. Tracii wasn't a big guy, but he was heavy as a stone, and Phil swayed and staggered out to the car and tossed the bodybag into the backseat. He draped his coat over Tracii to disguise the bodybag as best he could. He closed and locked the motel room behind them, then headed out onto the highway as calmly as he could. All his instincts were screaming for him to floor the peddle and drive hellbent for the border, but the last thing Phil needed was to be stopped by the cops. Franchese owned the cops.

To keep calm, Phil tried talking to Tracii in the backseat. "So you can fly?"

"I can fly."

"Izzat something all vampires can do?" If so, being a vampire didn't sound so bad. Phil would sacrifice his humanity if it meant being able to soar through the canyons and gorges of the southwest at night.

"Not all of us. Everyone of us is unique," said Tracii. "I have my wings. Steve can spit venom, like a king cobra. It's fucking rad. Mick has this weird... I don't know what. He knows where to find things and how to get there. Kelly can, like, hypnotize people but doesn't usually bother."

"Is Kelly your girlfriend?"

A peal of laughter came from the bodybag. "Kelly's a guy. Taller than me! We're all guys. Hollywood vampires."

"So why are you 'ere in Las Vegas, instead of in Hollywood with them?"

"I'm not good with commitment," Tracii replied amiably.

Phil wondered about Tracii's relationship with these three men, but kept those questions to himself for the moment. Instead, he asked, "And which one turned you into a vampire?"

Tracii went quiet and still for a some time before finally saying, "Yeah, I didn't get a good luck at that guy." There was something final about his tone, as though warning Phil not to probe any further into the subject.

Phil cursed softly when he saw the car was nearly on empty. "Be still back there," he told Tracii. "I have to stop for gas."

Tracii laughed at him from the backseat. "What, am I gonna hop off in my bodybag? I'm not going anywhere."


	6. Numero Seis

Once he could no longer see Las Vegas in the rear-view mirror, Phil let himself feel a dangerous emotion -- hope. He had not hoped for anything in a long time, perhaps two years or more. He began to believe that they might pull this off.

Tracii dozed off in his bodybag in the backseat. They would drive till dusk, then switch places, and Tracii would drive to Mexico while Phil slept. This far into the desert, the radio could only pick up one station, and Phil listened to a tinny-sounding "Fairies Wear Boots" by Black Sabbath while Tracii's cab devoured miles of asphalt beneath its wheels.

Phil daydreamed about Mexico; about soaking up sunshine on the beaches, about eating the worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila. He'd learn Spanish, he told himself, and he could watch over Tracii while he slept during the day, and at night -- well, perhaps Phil could convince Tracii to only eat dangerous people. Dangerous people with fat wallets.

Phil daydreamed about singing again, making love and fucking and rutting -- being willing again. No more fumbling, hypocritical senators and businessmen, no more photographers projecting their David Hurles-style fantasies about bad boys and hustlers onto him. Phil would shout, and sing, and scream. He'd be free at last.

They stopped in a small town just long enough to fill the car's tank again and for Phil to grab a sandwich for his own empty tank. Just a couple miles down the highway, a police car pulled up alongside them. Phil kept a wary eye on the vehicle. A few minutes later, two more police vehicles merged onto the highway, boxing them in. Phil was drenched in a cold sweat.

"Tracii! Wake up!"

A muffled, mumbling sound came from the bodybag. "Wha-- huh?"

"We're in trouble." Phil struggled to stay calm. His hands trembled no matter how tightly he gripped the wheel. "Whatever happens, don't move. Don't make a sound. Doesn't matter what you may hear."

"Shit. Your boss, what's his name..."

"Franchese."

"...Franchese. He's tailing us?"

Before Phil could answer, the cop vehicles turned on their sirens, and one pulled directly in front of him and slammed on the brakes. He rode the brakes hard to keep from wiping out. Tracii cursed as his bodybag slid into the floor board. In moments, they were surrounded by police. Phil rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Why had he dared to dream, to think that Las Vegas was a nightmare he could wake from?

A cop wrenched his door open. Phil put up his hands in surrender. "It's him," the cop called to one of his fellow officers, and Phil could hear them speaking into their radios. Informing Franchese that his little runaway had been found, no doubt.

Phil was yanked out of the vehicle and shoved over the hood, his hands roughly handcuffed behind his back. "Not going to read me my rights, are you?" he asked with the last bit of bravado he could muster, which earned him a smack to the face and a "Shut the fuck up" from the cop. A second officer opened the backseat, and Phil's heart leapt into his throat, but Tracii in his bodybag was in the floor board, hidden by Phil's coat, and if the cop even noticed it, he didn't pay it much mind. Instead, Phil was thrown into the backseat and locked in, while one of the officers took the driver's seat. Pressing his face to the slick material of Tracii's bodybag, Phil hissed, "Shhhhhh."

They laid there for some time, until the cops got word on where to meet up with Franchese and his men. They whipped around and headed back the way they'd come on the highway.

Phil lay as still as he could, trying not to attract any attention from the cops. His wrists ached in their cuffs. The movement of the car shook him to and fro, and a sharp turn sent him also on top of Tracii. He lost himself for some minutes in the feel of the body beneath him, the planes and angles of Tracii's body, trying to enjoy being close to someone for what was surely going to be the last hour or so of his life.

This had predictable results. "Really, dude?" Tracii whispered to him. Phil smirked. He'd always fancied going out in the throes of passion with some hot young thing beneath him, and well, maybe this was close enough. A hard acceleration sent Phil rolling back against the seat, depriving him of the stimulation of Tracii's body, much to his chagrin.

The cop smiled back at him, one gold tooth flashing. "You're so dead, fag." They were taking a gravelly back road to nowhere good. The cops parked in front of a nondescript warehouse, and Phil was dragged from the backseat and marched inside.

Franchese was waiting for him, flanked by some of his ugliest goons. Phil gave him a look of pure loathing, no longer bothering to disguise his hatred of the man -- he was going to die screaming anyway, so what did it matter if Francese knew what he thought of him. Franchese's men tied him to a chair while Francese paced back and forth.

"You fucked me over, big time," Franchese snarled at him.

"How does it feel?" Phil asked him. "You've fucked over so many people, you ugly bastard."

Franchese punched him hard enough to send Phil to the floor.

Coughing, Phil cringed as Franchese's men pulled him and the chair upright again. Franchese was rubbing his knuckles.

"You'd almost paid off your debts," said Franchese. "And you had to go and kill Marco and his bodyguard. What the fuck were you thinking."

Phil sucked in a deep breath through his nose and shook his head. His face throbbed. "You were never going to release me from my debts. Don't insult me by lying to me."

The door to the warehouse banged open, and two of the cops appeared, carrying Tracii's bodybag between them. The world seemed to move in slow motion. Phil gasped out loud.

"Look what we found in the car, boss!" said the gold-toothed cop. "Seems we got a real serial killer on our hands." They dumped the bodybag on the floor. Phil watched in amazement as the warehouse door slammed shut behind them.

Franchese turned back to Phil. "Who the fuck is in that?" he asked, pointing at the bodybag.

A beatific smile graced Phil's face. "It doesn't matter. Nothing you say matters." He laughed at Franchese. "You're dead! You're dead and you don't know it."

Inside his bodybag, Tracii sat up. The cops sprang back in fright as the zipper shrieked and Tracii stuck his head out of the bag.

"Holy mother of fuck--" Franchese started to say, his eyes bugging out of his head as Tracii stood up and spread his wings.


	7. Numero Siete

Perhaps it was a cliché, but from Phil's point-of-view, time seemed to slow down. Tracii's messy head popped out of the bodybag; a second later, the bodybag was shredded by Tracii's vicious nails and the power of his wings unfurling.

One of Franchese's dirty cops was a little quicker on the draw than the other goons. He had his pistol out and ready, aiming it right for Tracii's head. Before Phil could even draw a breath to scream a warning, Tracii flew at the cop, and for the first time, Phil witnessed the force of Tracii's predatory ferocity. Tracii sank his teeth into the cop's hand, the same hand that Phil had once seen break the nose of one of Franchese's girls. The cop howled as Tracii severed his fingers, sending the pistol clattering to the floor.

The second cop, not willing to fire on them and gun down his partner, tackled Tracii to the ground. Tracii hammered him in the face with one of his wings, a blow that hit like a baseball bat. Meanwhile, Franchese got his own gun out and started firing wildly, shots that struck the ground, the wall behind Tracii, and finally a glancing shot that caught Tracii in the side of the neck. Tracii howled and clutched at his wound. Ichor seeped out between his fingers.

Cursing under his breath, Phil looked around him, spotting a large steel storage drum a few feet away. He got his feet under him and stood up, his hands still cuffed behind him and his chair still on his back, and kicked the drum at Franchese with everything he had. It was empty, but knocked into Franchese with enough force to throw him off-balance a bit, buying Tracii just enough time to launch himself into the air and come down on Franchese like an avenging angel.

"Fuck this," said one of Franchese's goons, who'd taken cover as soon as the carnage began. As Phil watched in horror, the goon bolted for the door.

"Tracii, take cover!" Phil screamed.

Franchese's goon wrenched the door open. Tracii flung Franchese aside and dove inside the empty steel drum, barely escaping the killing rays of the sun that flooded the warehouse. The first cop, who'd been nursing his mangled hand, wailed as he exploded into ashes; he must've been in the process of vampirizing before the sun got him. Phil stared, aghast, at the sight. The second cop lay as though dead, which he might well have been. The blow he'd taken to the head from Tracii's wing was more than enough to break a neck or cave in a skull.

Franchese was a bloody, groaning heap on the floor.

"You gotta close the door!" Tracii pleaded from his hiding place in the drum. "Phil, please! Save me!"

Phil was exhausted, his eye was swelling shut from being punched by Franchese, and his ears rang from the thunderous sound of the gunshots. He was so frightened that his legs could hardly bear his weight. Tracii, the apex predator, was helpless as a newborn inside his steel drum. A child could kick it and spin it around to face the sunlight, obliterating Tracii in seconds. Phil was his only hope.

Franchese made it to his knees. His face was slashed, but he didn't burn in the sunlight. Tracii must not have bitten him. He felt at the ground in front of him, groping for the cop's dropped pistol.

"Phil, please don't let me die!" said Tracii.

With Herculean effort, Phil made it back to his feet, dragging himself and the chair he was handcuffed to across the warehouse to the door. Franchese yelled something at him, but Phil ignored him. It didn't matter now if Franchese killed him or not; he'd made his choice. That's what free men do, they make choices.

Phil kicked the warehouse door shut, and Franchese fired on him. The first shot missed, and Phil had just enough time to turn and try to duck before the second shot hit home, blowing a hole in Phil's chest. He slumped to the floor.

With a roar, Tracii erupted from the steel drum. He swooped down on Franchese, grasped him by the hand holding the pistol, and tore Francese's arm from its socket. The sounds Franchese made didn't even sound human. That done, Tracii flew to Phil's side, breaking the handcuffs and cradling him in his arms.

"Oh no, fuck. Philip." Tracii looked into Phil's suffering eyes. The wound in Phil's chest made a terrible sucking noise as Phil struggled for breath, still trying to live despite it all. Tracii's face screwed up in misery. "Phil, forgive me. Forgive me."

Behind them, Franchese finally bled out.

Phil's eyes widened in horror, as though comprehending, through the haze of pain and terror, just why Tracii was begging him for forgiveness.

Tracii leaned down and sank his teeth into Phil's neck.

Shortly after sundown, the rumble of three motorcycle engines heralded the arrival of Steve, Kelly, and Mick into this one-whore town. The three roared along the treacherous little backroads at breakneck speed, their bikes spewing gravel behind them. They pulled over on the side of the highway, next to an idling cop car that seemed to be lying in wait for speeding motorists -- except there was no officer on duty.

"I thought you said we were going to Vegas," Steve said to Mick. "This doesn't look much like Vegas."

Mick shook his head. "Something big went down. Something real big. He's here. He's right here."

A dark figure blotted out the bright moon, sending chills down the spines of the three killer vampires.

Kelly revved his bike. "You ready for big daddy? 'Cause there he is."

"He's looking for something," Mick said, taking off down the road in pursuit.

They followed Tracii to where the road ran out, and then abandoned their bikes and pursued him on foot. They didn't have to go far. They found Tracii standing on a rocky outcropping overlooking a creek, his hands clenched into fists. When he turned to look at them, they could see his face was tear-streaked even in the moonlight.

Steve confronted him. "What have you done?"

Tracii shook his head at him. "You weren't there. He saved my life, and I couldn't let him die like that."

Mick tore at his hair. "No, no..."

"Don't you start!" Tracii snarled at him. "I found Kelly bleeding out in that car wreck. Should I have left him to die there, huh?"

"That's different," gritted out Mick from between his teeth.

"No it isn't! Don't fucking lie to yourself!" Tracii glared at him fiercely. "I didn't give you eternal life so you could spend it lying to yourself."

"You condemned us all to eternity," Steve said grimly. "And now you've condemned another one. When will it stop, Tracii? When will it be enough?"

A howl -- a glorious, animalistic howl -- filled the night. Tracii hushed them, a look of joy on his face. "That's him," he whispered.

A wolf walked on silent feet out of the darkness. The moonlight glinted off his pale eyes and the wet, white tips of his fangs. The four vampires watched, mesmerized, as the wolf stood up, taking the form of a man, a young man wearing only a dragon tattoo on his hip and a wolfskin cloak over his shoulders.

Tracii approached him the way one approaches a wild animal: slowly, with hands out in supplication. "I know you're scared. But there's nothing to be scared of, I promise. There's nothing in the night that can ever hurt you again."

Phil regarded him silently for some moments. His lips parted, and he spoke in the deliberate manner of one remembering to be human again. "What is to become of us all?"

"Yeah, well, that's what we're all wondering," said Kelly, scratching at the side of his head. "We were hunting down Tracii, hoping he'd tell us."

"We stay up all night and sleep all day and we're hungry nearly all the time," Mick said. "What place does the world have for any of us?"

Phil reached up and touched the tender spot on his neck, where Tracii had bitten him. It'd healed over already; ichor flowed in his veins. But still the faint marks of his maker remained there, forever, or near enough. "I know what we can do," he murmured. "The only people who live like vampires are rock stars." He smiled his beautiful smile at his new family.

A few miles down the road, the three bikes -- Steve now carrying Tracii, and Kelly carrying Phil -- pulled up in front of the warehouse. Two worried-looking county cops stumbled out of the door to the warehouse, shell-shocked by what they'd seen inside. The sight of the bikers drew them up short.

Tracii eyed the cops' motorcycles with some interest. "Those are some fine machines, officers."


End file.
